


Match

by mckinlily



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean worldbuilding, Gen or Pre-Slash, Multi, Sacrifice, soulmates - sorta, soulmates are about as real as astrology in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mckinlily/pseuds/mckinlily
Summary: Alteans have numerous marking on their skin, and even more folk tales and superstitions around them. But Allura doesn't have Altea anymore. She's fighting a war.And her marks are damaged.
Relationships: Allura & Shiro (Voltron), Allura/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	Match

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on tumblr a bit ago, but I liked it so I'm posting it here too.

Like most children, Allura grows up hearing the legends and stories of the marks on Altean skin. _Cellica,_ they are called. Babies are born with skin entirely unadorned; the cheek marks are the first to appear. They start as lighter patches of skin that quickly develop the stiffer, smoother texture of _cellica_ at about the same time babies start to sit up on their own. When the _cellica_ develop to their full fledged color, the baby is taken to the local Priestess for their Naming Ceremony, where they are officially recognized as part of Altea. Throughout childhood and into the beginning of puberty, other marks appear. Along arms, down the back, over legs and hips. Although most cheek marks look the same from Altean to Altean, the others vary. The general placement and symmetry remains the same, but some are rounder, some more angular. Some come in continuous lines while others are broken up in patterns.

There’s a lot of superstition about _cellica_. Only those found on the cheeks are shown to the public—the rest are reserved for partners, family, on occasion _very_ close friends. There is an old superstition that the shape of your _cellica_ reflect the shape of your soul and that to see one’s _cellica_ is to see the essence their soul. Old wives tales and folk lore talk of evil alchemists using the shapes of one’s _cellica_ to cast spells on them. Those tales are considered works of fictions these days, but the general belief—that these are something personal, private, to be shared only under the conditions of greatest trust—remains. The most personal marks are considered to be those on the inside of the wrist. These marks tend to be slimmer, more delicate and intricate, and even the most brazen Altean who many be willing to walk with both their arms bare for the viewing will cover their wrists with bands or bangles. Hands are no longer so _very_ scandalous as they once were, but most Alteans still wear gloves. Even Allura’s fingerless gloves were considered risqué by certain members of the court when she first donned them, but then, she considered them quite old fashioned.

And other superstitions are more fun.There is a whole market of books and holo-vids and lectures claiming to “interpret” _cellica_ ranging from personality to romance and destiny. The scientific community agrees that _cellica_ are merely the result of random genetic variation and seem to serve a purpose in channelling and keeping one’s quintessence at a healthy level. While this is generally known by the public, is has done nothing to stop the public interest in _cellica_ readings, rather like the Altean equivalent of horoscopes. Sure, everyone knows it’s basically nonsense, but it’s fun to imagine, is it not?

And the most persistent and enticing superstition is that the shape of your _cellica_ will match thoseof your soulmate. Skeptics will point out that the definition of a match is left so vague and the variation between marks so common, that it is possible to claim any two people’s _cellica_ “match.” Which, indeed, is exactly what happens. Some poor souls spend their whole lives chasing the perfect match or believing they match anyone they come in contact with. But most often, partners choose each other first and then find the similarities that “prove” their _cellica_ compatibility later, thus perpetuating the legend. There are a multiple schools of thought theorizing which marking styles are compatible, which complement each other, which ones should never go together. And thus it is entirely possible for any combination of partners to confidently claim they were “fated.”

Allura grew up imagining of the day she will share her _cellica_ marks with someone special. She had little interest in courting and romance at the time, caught up as she was in studying and training and all the other duties that came with being a princess, but later (whenever _later_ happened to be) she dreams of baring her arms to someone she loved while they did the same and tracing out the similarities drawn in their skin. 

But then there is the Galra and the war—even if she had wanted to court, she doesn't have the _time—_ and waking up ten thousand years later to a people who were gone and a war that was still waging. Any thoughts of soulmates and romance are wiped completely from her mind, replaced by righteous fury, vengeance, and the need to survive. 

Allura keeps busy: planning battles, training the paladins, and most of all, trying to develop her new skills with quintessence. Alchemy had always been something _other_ people did. Allura was more interested in fighting or flying or even law and diplomacy. But now her magic is essential to their survival and all she has to go off of are vague memories and _Haggar_. She is determined and desperate, racing to learn as much as she can because what she doesn’t know could be what gets someone killed. 

(…one of the _paladins_ killed. Allura had never thought of finding family outside the one her blood gave her, never thought she’d need to, but they wormed their way in and they can’t—she _can not_ lose them now.)

Allura may not know much about alchemy and magic, but it doesn’t take long for her to realize one of her _cellica_ have changed. Where once was a delicate half-moon of shimmery pink inside her wrist is now a disfigured blob, duller and smeared like spilled oil. Horror strikes in her sternum that works its way from a sharp pain into something heavier and colder as she remembers Haggar’s red and jagged marks. In a sick way, it makes sense. _Cellica_ have always been connected to quintessence, and she has been using hers more and in ways she had never imagined. Perhaps if she had someone older, someone knowledgeable and experienced to guide her, she could learn the tricks or skills or whatever it is to avoid it. But she doesn’t. She’s completely alone, the only other alchemist being Haggar, and she _has_ to learn because otherwise innocent people will die.

Allura will _never_ run away from the people who need her. Not again.

So she fights, and she learns. She battles Haggar to a standstill and tries so, so hard not to look at her arms. But sometimes she can’t avoid it, and she can hardly bare what she finds. The delicate, intricate _cellica_ on the insides of her wrists are shattered now. Some splatter like spilled numvil, others have gone dull and sickly grey. New marks, disfigured and without symmetry smear over her arms and into her palms. They look like dead things, pressed into her skin and now a part of her. Some marks start out pink but turn grey-white and misshapen, and that’s somehow worse.

Allura tells no one. She _knows_ that _cellica_ are simply a quirk of genetics, that they have no bearing on the worth or character of a person, and that there had been those when Altea was still alive with disfigured or missing _cellica_ who lived perfectly happy, valuable lives. It doesn’t change how she feels. Tainted, defiled, broken. She can’t even bring it up to Coran, the shame too much for her to bear. It was well known that when an Altean loved someone, _truly_ loved them, and in moments of greatest intimacy, their _cellica_ could light up like a personal galaxy. Allura has known since she first woke up that she will likely never have someone to glow for her, but she must now face the fact that _she_ will never be able to glow for anyone _else_. Not without looking more patchy than starry and highlighting the broken and dead places where her _cellica_ should be. The idea of it repulses her. She’s incapable of love like she wants—like she _should—_ and she feels so broken, tainted and alone. 

But she can’t stop. Whatever she does, she _won’t_ stop until the Galra are defeated and the universe is free again. If the personal cost is her marks and her soul, so be it. It is no one’s burden but hers. She wears her sleeves long and tight, says nothing, and carries on because that was what she was built to do.

Or, at least, that was what she meant to do. But the paladins are nothing if not unpredictable and perhaps no one more so than Shiro. He’s patient and thoughtful. Strong enough to survive the arena, the Galra, and everything they throw at him. And stronger still to remain kind through it all. He’s her fiercest ally (tied with Coran), and over time becomes her closest confidant. They discuss the war and the strategies they need to survive, but their conversations frequently turn to something more. Shiro is curious about Altean history and culture and willing to listen no matter how long she babbles on. And although he doesn’t ask and she certainly doesn’t mean to tell, she ends up retelling old folk tales which leads to myths and _cellica._

“There’s this old superstition that your _cellica_ will match those of your soulmate,” she says.

“Is it rude to ask someone what their _cellica_ look like?”

“Yes,” says Allura. She remembers her own _cellica_ , damaged and meaningless now. She sighs.“Though perhaps not in my case.”

“Because you’re the princess?” says Shiro, looking adorably earnest and confused.

Allura almost laughs at him, but she can’t. Instead, she wraps a hand around the wrist where the damage is greatest. “No,” she says. “Because they won’t match anyone anymore. Even if I _did_ find more Alteans. They’re—they’re _ruined.”_

“Oh,” says Shiro. He doesn’t quite reach out for her, but his face emotes empathy.

And Allura doesn’t know why she does it, but she removes her gloves and pushes her sleeves up. The sleeves are too tight to get past her elbow, but it’s enough. Her ugly, shattered and disfigured _cellica_ are on display. She holds them out to Shiro saying, “They’re supposed to be pink. And _symmetric—” s_ ymmetry had always been important, no matter who you asked “—and not like _this.”_

Shiro takes her hands, eyebrows pulling together as he scans over her arms and then back to her face. “Is this from the war?”

“Fighting Haggar,” Allura confirms. “The damage has stopped spreading mostly, but…”

But it was there, irreversible, the price forever paid.

Shiro’s expression is sad but too deep to be pity. And he doesn’t tell her she shouldn’t have done it: he as well as anyone knows the costs of war. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly instead.

“It’s…” Allura means to say “it’s fine,” but Shiro is gentle and _here,_ and it all comes tumbling out. The stories and the fear, the superstitions, the glowing and how she will never be able to show someone her love without also reminding them of how she was broken, and the way she feels tarnished, less of a person.

Shiro listens through all of this, his eyes moving between her face and her arms and back again. He’d asked if it was all right for him to touch her marks, and Allura hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t quite said yes either, so he remained, only holding her hands and gently squeezing her fingers. 

Eventually, Allura removes one of her hands to wipe at her eyes. She feels exhausted and heavy, and while sharing has lifted some of the burden, it’s also opened wounds she had been trying so hard to ignore.

Shiro hasn’t spoken in a while. Finally, he gets up, and Allura has the sudden, irrational fear that he’s leaving.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Or just…” he hitches his shoulders uncomfortably, “don’t look.”

He turns his back on her, but then Allura realizes he’s messing with the hem of his shirt and she immediately looks away, cheeks hot. The idea of Shiro _taking off his shirt_ , even if she isn’t looking, even if humans have very different standards of privacy is horribly embarrassing. She can hardly bare to hear the rustle of his clothes. 

Shiro huffs a soft laugh. “Okay, you can look now.”

He’s sitting in front of her again. His shirt _is_ off, but he still has on the vest he normally wears on top of it, thank the Ancients. Allura is in no way ready to see all the skin of his _chest_ right now. 

Allura is so distracted by her embarrassment, it takes her a minute to notice that Shiro is holding out his hands to her the same way she had to him earlier.

“I know it’s not the same, but…” He trails off, his lip caught between his teeth like he’s nervous.

It occurs to Allura that she’s never seen Shiro’s bare arms. She never questioned it before. He was the oldest of the paladins, and though Allura now knows that humans don’t have marks or any reason to cover their arms as they get older, it simply made sense to her that Shiro’s would be covered. But they’re bare now, and Allura is looking. Most noticeable, of course, is the Galra arm, the silver metal that she had seen before, though now she could also seen the red, scarred, and puffy skin where the metal meets flesh. The sight pains her.

But the other arm is possibly worse. There are scars running from a shiny welt behind his thumb to the gnarled knot over his shoulder. They come in all shapes and sizes, some patterned like claw marks, others smears as if entire chunks got melted or burned away. Still others arc and fracture like electricity. There’s a whole world of pain and endurance and torture in just one arm, and Allura has to be mindful of her strength so that she doesn’t crush his hands in her fury. 

“Just…” says Shiro when she doesn’t respond. He shrugs uncomfortably, looking both nervous and tentatively hopeful. “I’m not symmetric either. We match.”

_We match._ Allura’s eyes meet his. His smile is nervous—no, _embarrassed._ His shoulders hunch in even as he holds his arms out to her, and Allura realizes he keeps his scars covered for the same reason she hides hers. Because they feel shameful, tainted, and reminders of pain and trauma. 

And yet Allura doesn’t see Shiro as broken. She _can’t_. He is the strongest person she has ever known, and she takes a certain, vicious pride in knowing he was strong enough survive this—that he came _back_ to them and leads and fights with them now. The scars are proof that the Galra tried to destroy him. But they _didn’t_. Shiro is still here, noble and determined as ever, and lending his strength to keep them going every day.

Allura looks down at where their hands rest between them, both covered in random, ugly, and disfigured marks. Shiro is right: they _do_ match. Not because of any lore, but because they have both fought—and lost and suffered and picked themselves up and kept fighting because they refuse to be defeated. These are marks they wear so that others won’t have to. Marks of sacrifice, of love and determination.

Both of them would die to save the universe. But they haven’t. They have _lived._

Allura gently squeezes Shiro’s fingers. She doesn’t have words, but she doesn’t have to because Shiro _understands._ For the first time since her first _cellica_ changed, she doesn’t feel so very alone.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” Shiro takes his arms back, tucking them against his chest. His cheeks are red, and he ducks his head. “I know it isn’t pretty.”

Allura places her hand on his shoulder. Seeing the same emotions in Shiro and reflected back at her is strange but also freeing. “Shiro,” she says. “Nothing about you is ugly or shameful. I _promise_ you.”

Shiro’s eyes look over-bright for a moment, but he still smiles. “The same is true of you, Allura. A million times over. We are so incredibly lucky to have you.”

It’s Allura’s turn to blush, and a few spots among her ruined _cellica_ lighten in a disjointed attempt to glow. But this time, next to Shiro who has scars and loss of his own, she doesn’t feel so very broken.

Allura still wears her sleeves long. She will probably never show her _cellica_ to anyone, even though Coran and the paladins are as good as family. The loss is still deep. But when she looks across the bridge, Shiro is there, with his own dark sleeves and hidden pain, and when he catches her looking, his eyes gleam with determination.

They may not both be Altean, but they have clearly been marked by the universe in their unique ways. They match, and perhaps that’s all _cellica_ and soulmates are about in the end: a promise neither one of them is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, I love comments and kudos! <3


End file.
